


The French Kissers

by endlesstars



Category: Peaky Blinders (TV)
Genre: Angst, BBC, Birmingham City, Crimes & Criminals, F/M, France (Country), French Characters, Gangs, Historical, London, Love, Post-World War I, Roaring Twenties, Romance, period drama
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-26
Updated: 2021-02-27
Packaged: 2021-03-17 09:27:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,586
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29715087
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/endlesstars/pseuds/endlesstars
Summary: ❝ They're the French Kissers, that's what they do.They will lure you in and then they'll kill you with a kiss. ❞━ in which the leader of the french kissers and the birmingham boss enter another type of war: lovePEAKY BLINDERS | BBCpost season 3 -thomas shelby x oc© endlesstars
Relationships: Thomas Shelby/OC, Thomas Shelby/Original Female Character, Tommy Shelby & Original Female Character(s), Tommy Shelby/Original Character(s), Tommy Shelby/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 8
Kudos: 16





	1. Prologue

**August 1916**  
**Amiens, France**

For Rose Salvage, the only thing worse than war was the smell of it. That acre, sickening smell that spread around her, filling her nostrils, attacking her lungs and threatening her very existence just because she dared being in the same space as it.  
  
It was not just the blood or the sweat or the dirt, it was the smell of death itself glued to every body, reshaping every soul. Rose knew that once someone felt such a smell, they could never come back from it. Not as they once were. Something in them had to change, for they had seen and had been seen by Death and must now carry that encounter in their lives.  
  
And in twenty three years of life, Rose had seen more death than she should have, and learned that the worst part of it were the screams that preceded it, the piercing, agonizing screams of the wounded soldiers as they bled out in the white sheets for their country, for a home they would only get to see through a coffin.  
  
This was France now, an endless graveyard where the only things that seemed alive were the howitzers and the machine guns, not the people behind them. They were far behind the lines, but war didn't just happen in the battlefield or the trenches, it happened in the hospitals, in the captured villages, in the destroyed cities and fields, in the mind of the soldiers, and in her heart.  
  
Even after two years of serving in the Red Cross, Rose could still not stand the smell or the screams, and everywhere she turned, there were bodies being covered and soldiers that silently cried to a God who never seemed to listen.  
  
The hospital she had been assigned to was located in Amiens, near the River Somme, and the decrepit building had been bursting at the seams ever since the Battle of the Somme had begun the month before. Considering the amount of injured they had received, Rose was under the impression it would be a terrible battle, perhaps one of the most bloodied in that damned war. And yet it was her job to treat them, to make sure they could return to it, or at least home. But when it came to that, and like in any war, Rose had had more defeats than victories.  
  
"Rose... Rose..." a soft voice spoke from behind her as hands tried taking her away from the soldier on the bed. "There's nothing you can do. The poor dear is dead. All we can do is let him rest."  
  
Rose turned her head to the side, to the nun who always stared at her with trained empathy. She was resigned. She made the sign of the cross and moved one. Rose could not.  
  
"What's the point?" She asked, and she didn't know who she was speaking to, if the nun, if the God she spoke for, if someone else entirely, if herself. "If we can't save them, what is it that we're doing here?"  
  
"Rose, dear, you're young. You're so young. Soon you'll learn you can't save everyone."  
  
"Then what can I do, Mother? Pray? Give them a few words of comfort and watch them die? Some of them are not even eighteen! This soldier was not even eighteen! What kind of God allows that?"  
  
"Rose, I understand you're upset, but we must not question our faith. There are things above you and me, things only God can decide. We are not here to question why."  
  
"Well, I am. Why this? Why France?" Rose insisted while the nun grabbed the sheets at the ends of the bed and covered the corpse with it. "Why my friends, my compatriots, my father, my brothers? No. I refuse to accept this, any of this. There's no meaning in a war, there's just death. And it feels that here, instead of fighting it, we're letting it win."  
  
"You're a woman of many questions, Rose," the nun said, placing a comforting hand to her shoulder. "Such thing will get you in trouble. You must learn that men ask the questions and we women try to get them the answers they need. That's all we can do."  
  
"Because they've been handling society so well. Killing each other for such futile reasons. If anything, war just taught me how stupid men are," Rose snickered, but then her attention drifted to the window and to the ambulances arriving from the front lines, and she watched in terror as a horse fell down with a loud, shrieking howl, twisting and turning on the grass in visible pain.  
  
"Why doesn't anyone do anything?" She huffed in despair.  
  
"As you can see, everyone is too busy attending the injured."  
  
"But that horse is injured too. He's in pain!"  
  
"They will deal with him as soon as they can, I'm sure. The horse will have to be put down, he's beyond our help now."  
  
"He's just another lost cause, isn't he?" Rose questioned, and every shriek of the horse was like a stab to her heart. She hated it. She hated seeing people suffer, but she died when horses did.  
  
"Yes. And we do not waste time on lost causes. We cannot afford it, unfortunately."  
  
"Too bad," the young woman retorted, nails digging into her skin. "I do. They seem to be my specialty."  
  
Another desperate yelp made Rose's heart ache like a hundred shells had just been dropped on it. She had seen so much already, treated and consoled men, written letters to widows and orphans, many of whom she knew, telling them their husbands or fathers would not be returning, and yet with each death she still felt completely outraged, completely robbed. She could feel herself giving in to the anguish, to the helplessness she felt every time a soldier died in her hands, to the fear of knowing the same could be happening to her father or brothers.  
  
She was kept awake at night by the possibility of having to write her own mother a letter with the worst of news, and yet the only thing that kept her going was the duty towards those men who bravely gave their lives to defend her country, many of them not even French, and the hope she could make a difference, that she could help, that in the face of death, she could make others live. But sometimes, all she could give was mercy. That horse was going to have a slow, miserable death, and Rose could do something about it.  
  
She stepped away from the window and turned around.  
  
"Rose, stay here, I will need your help with the men!" The nun ordered as Rose started walking away. The horse's cries were the worst thing she had ever heard. It felt like Death itself was dying. "You can't save him, Rose! Good Lord, what are you going to do?"  
  
Ignoring the nun calling after her, Rose quickly got to the door and grabbed a forgotten pistol before stepping outside and making her way between the horde of stretchers and soldiers with a heavy heart but clear mind. Around her, men were yelling for someone to make the howling stop, but before anyone could, Rose had come close to the dying horse.  
  
She pointed the gun at his head and shot once. The horse's shouts ended, replaced by those of the nuns and the soldiers.  
  
"Rose, oh dear Lord, Rose, what did you do?" Mother shouted from above.  
  
"I ended his misery, that's what I did," she replied. _Perhaps at the cost of starting mine._  
  
"Guns are not for women, mademoiselle! Give that to me," a soldier ordered, forcefully taking the pistol out of her hand, more bothered that a woman had used a gun than that she had used it to kill. But Rose was not listening, watching the stream of blood coming out from the hole of the bullet. The horse was dead, and Rose felt like some part of her was too. She was staring at him and remembering how she had wanted to be one as a child, because they seemed so free with their manes in the wind. Now he was lying on the ground in front of her along with all of her childhood dreams. They were all wrong, and all dead. War didn't just take lives, it took dreams and ideals too.  
  
Not standing to be there any longer, she returned to the building, ignoring the disapproving words of the nuns and going to a different wing. Most of the soldiers there were in convalescence and they seemed to like her, and her smile, many often trying to crack a joke just to see it.  
  
"Did you hear that horse, Rose?" One asked as Rose approached him to change his bandages. The others around him perked up at her arrival, as if she was the only thing that kept them from dying. But Rose didn't feel like a medicine to anyone. If anything, like shooting that horse had proved, her thorns had poison.  
  
"Yes. That's why I killed him."  
  
"I'm relieved you did," he said after a moment of silence. "I couldn't stand his yells anymore."  
  
"Neither could I. It's just cruel, dragging animals into wars. At this rate no man will ever step foot in heaven. We all have our place in hell."  
  
"Don't let the nuns hear you, Rose. They don't like you much already."  
  
"How can you be okay with it?" She mumbled, shaking her head. "How do you not rebel? Emperors and generals make wars and then they make the horses and the soldiers pay for it. It doesn't seem like a very fair trade to me. Your lives for their glory."  
  
"You're an intelligent woman, Rose," another one chipped in. "No wonder you haven't found a man yet. They all must be terrified of you."  
  
"Well, they should," she retorted. "But it's true. If all men refused to fight, there would be no war."  
  
"But men fight. It's in our nature," said a third soldier. "Like it's in your nature to take care of us."  
  
"No, that's my job," Rose replied, a ghost of a smile on her lips. "And it's not that I haven't found a man. It's just I haven't found one smart enough for me."  
  
"Rose, you're mending our bones but breaking our poor hearts."  
  
"Don't get me wrong, boys, I like you. But you're too French for my taste."  
  
"Rose, don't tell us you prefer those pretentious Rosbifs? They're so pompous!"  
  
"No, they're not," Rose chuckled, and that smile soldiers talked about when she was gone and that was known in the entire hospital made them smile too.  
  
"Do you have sisters, Rose?" One asked and Rose's smile grew when she nodded. Thinking of her sisters always made her smile. "Are they as beautiful as you?"  
  
"They're more beautiful. But I'm the cleverest," she said, smirking slightly.  
  
"Are they nurses too?"  
  
"No. After the men went to war and I volunteered as a nurse, our mother forbad anyone else from leaving the house. It's better for them anyway. No one should have to witness such horrors. And my sisters... they're not like me, you see? They still believe the world is good."  
  
"Maybe it's not, but it can't be all bad, Rose. Otherwise you wouldn't be here."  
  
"You're too kind, mon cher," Rose smiled again, kissing the soldier on the forehead and making some of the others clap and whistle. "Don't let war take that from you."  
  
"Rose, the day you find a mec, that's the day you'll make him the luckiest man on Earth, and the day you'll make all the others the unluckiest."  
  
"You have too much faith in me, boys."  
  
"Well, you have not failed us where God has. Who knows, perhaps that day is today and—"  
  
"Are there any available nurses in here?" A nun asked from the door. "We need all the help we can get, a new shipment of soldiers has just arrived and they're all bleeding worse than a lamb on a slaughterhouse."  
  
"Be back soon, Rose, you're good for us," the soldier asked as she stood up and followed the nun to a much more crowded area. Rose's nose instantly scrunched up at the smell and her vision was invaded by horrible images of mutilated bodies and gruesome wounds. The war was this. The complete perversion of the word human.  
  
"Do what you can," the nun advised the young nurses. "But remember we need the beds, and the equipment is scarce. For those who are at death's door, we can only try to make them comfortable, and pray for a safe passage."  
  
The nurses dispersed in a frenetic haste, and amidst so much pain Rose didn't know where to start. But then her shin bumped into a bed and her eyes landed upon a man who was strangely serene. His eyes were closed and his face was just mud and blood, and so bruised Rose did not dare to imagine what he had gone through.  
  
The man seemed dead, and certainly someone had already thought he was because the sheets were over him as if he was going to be taken away. But his chest was still rising, and so Rose got closer to him, moved by that hope she couldn't put out, that she could heal more than she could harm. Taking a closer look at him, Rose realized he was unconscious, and bleeding terrible from an ugly wound on the abdomen.  
  
"Excuse me, sir, why is this man not being taken care of? He's wounded," Rose asked the nearest doctor urgently, who barely gave the soldier a second look before answering.  
  
"He's a lost cause, that one. We can't afford to waste time or resources on him."  
  
"No, he's still alive. He certainly needs surgery, but—"  
  
"Look, miss, we need to help those who actually have a chance to make it. Our job is to return as many soldiers as we can to the front lines. If you think we're here to save lives, you're wrong. We're just delaying deaths until the Allies win."  
  
"Of course. Because they are cannon fodder. Dispensable."  
  
"Miss, I advise you to keep your mouth shut and your hands full if you don't want to get in trouble," the doctor spat out before leaving. Rose looked at the soldier again, knowing that any sane person would give up on him. He did seem beyond saving. But Rose couldn't. After the horse, she couldn't.  
  
"Excuse me, sir!" She called another doctor in a resolute tone. "Could you please help me? This man, he needs surgery and..."  
  
The doctor looked at her, then at him. He shook his head once and left. Refusing to give up, she grabbed the arm of another one, her voice more vehement. She was different in that aspect. The more people told her no, the more her will increased, rather than waning.  
  
"Sir, I need you to take this soldier to the surgery wing as soon as possible. He's got a serious hemorrhage, the liver and the spleen have surely been injured, and the longer he waits, the greater the risk of infection."  
  
"Miss, I do not need you to tell me how to do my job. That man's a dead man. Focus on the living."  
  
She returned to the bedside in frustration, analyzing the wound and considering doing the operation herself. She had aided in many, so maybe she could pull it off.  
  
"Rose, give up on him. Come help me," one of the nurses asked. "There's nothing you can do for him."  
  
If there was one thing Rose had always hated, it was being told what she could or couldn't do. Her mother always said it would be her doom, her willingness to take chances on people. She looked around the room, hoping to find one of the few doctors that appreciated her hard work instead of disregarding her for not being a man.  
  
"Sir!" She ran after one. "Sir, please, I need your help. There's a man with a serious injure in his abdomen who needs to be operated as soon as possible."  
  
"Miss, everyone in this room needs to be operated as soon as possible."  
  
"Please, sir... just come see him," she took his hands in hers when he didn't move. "Please, I beg of you."  
  
The doctor sighed but followed her, his brow furrowing once he saw the state of the quiet soldier. "I doubt he would survive surgery. There's plenty of others who might."  
  
Rose squared her shoulders. This was a war she knew she could win. "Sir, with all due respect, I killed a horse today. Don't make me be responsible for this man's death as well."  
  
The doctor sighed again, pinching his nose. "Bring him to the surgery wing."

***

Rose had lost count to the number of men she had attended to that day, and yet her mind couldn't stop thinking about that particular one. There was something different about him, and she couldn't tell what. Maybe it was the fact he was the only peaceful thing Rose had seen since the war had started. She had assisted his surgery as she could but had been called to other duties before she could know if the man had survived, so as soon as she had a free second, she searched the hospital for the doctor.  
  
"Did he make it, sir? Please tell me he made it."  
  
"Miss Salvage," the doctor said, wiping the sweat from his forehead. He looked absolutely exhausted and Rose could guess so did she. "Yes. He made it."  
  
A wave of relief washed over her as her heart jumped like someone had just opened fire in her chest. "Thank you," she said, grabbing his face and kissing him twice on each cheek. "Thank you."  
  
"He's still not out of danger, however. He's in recovery, and we'll need to keep a very watchful eye on him because the risk of infection is still very large. It's a miracle, if you ask me. I can count on the fingers of one hand the number of men that survived an operation like that. He puts up a good fight, I'll give him that. And you saved a life today, miss Salvage. Seems like you have a fitting surname."  
  
"I need to see him."  
  
"I figured you'd say that. Come with me," the doctor led her through corridors and corridors until they arrived at a large room relatively quieter. "Last bed on the right."  
  
Rose made her way towards it, sitting on the bed beside him. He was impassive still, and that impressed her. Many of the soldiers screamed and squirmed after an operation and yet there he was, so serene for a second Rose feared the worse. But he was breathing, and in his sleep, his fingers moved. Without thinking, her hand grabbed his, perhaps just to feel the warmth of it, the life in it. She would never see this man again and he would never know her. But Rose hoped he could survive this war, go back home, and do good with this second life he had been given.  
British, Rose thought as she stared at him. And possibly handsome, in good health.  
  
She stood up to go back to duty, intercepting a nun on her way to the door. "Excuse me, Mother, do you happen to know this man's name?"  
  
"Let me see..." the nun frowned and looked at the board in her hands. "His identification was faded when it got here. All we got was Michael S."

***

"Rose?" A nurse called as Rose finished giving dinner to a group of soldiers. "Was it you who attended to Michael this afternoon?"  
  
"Yes, why?" She asked worriedly, having to place down the bowl of soup due to the sudden shaking of her hands.  
  
"He's asking for you. Or at least, for the 'pretty nurse'. I assumed that was you since it didn't seem to be any of the nuns he was offending with that statement."  
  
"How... he didn't even see me..."  
  
"Oh, men always do," the other woman chuckled. "You're lucky, he's a real treat. I see why you prefer the British."  
  
"I don't prefer the British," Rose rolled her eyes but made her way to the soldier again. He seemed to have fallen asleep in the meantime, so Rose suppressed her disappointment and adjusted the blankets around him. Knowing she should go back, she sat down instead and was almost falling asleep herself when he spoke.  
  
"Are you familiar with the poem 'In the bleak midwinter'?" He asked, eyes closed and mouth barely moving. Rose was taken aback, if not by his question, by his steady, low voice and strong, unfamiliar accent. Rose couldn't tell where it was from, but she could tell she wanted to know.  
  
"Yes, I am."  
  
"You are," he ran his tongue over his lips and for some reason her eyes got stuck on the movement. "Well, if I die, I want you to recite that poem to me. Yes?"  
  
"I... yes," Rose answered, her voice above a mere whisper. This was a man recovering from a critical surgery and lying on a hospital bed and he still managed to be more intimidating than many officials she had met. "But I won't have to. You will not die."  
  
"Yeah? How can you tell, love? You read me tea leaves?"  
  
"Well no, for that I'd need tea and we only have bitter coffee," she chuckled, and the man shifted ever so slightly at the sound. His eyes didn't open, though, and Rose couldn't help but wonder what color they were. "But I see life in you, nonetheless. And I feel like as soon as the doctors allow it, you'll go right back to the front line when most men would be running home."  
  
"I have my brothers in the front line. If I return, it's for them."  
  
"Speaking of return, I must go," Rose said, noticing the nuns staring at her. They never liked when she spent too much time speaking to a man, even if 'too much time' for them was everything above a minute. "And you must rest. In the bleak midwinter? That's a good poem."  
  
"Yes. It's a good poem."  
  
Rose stood up and walked away, a smile blossoming from her lips like the first flower of spring.  
  
"Rose, I'm sorry I told you to give up on him," the nurse from that afternoon told her. "But I'm glad you didn't listen to me. Then again, you never do. You never listen to anyone," she smiled and gestured towards the soldier on the bed. "You really can't stay away from lost causes, can you? Tell me, what did you see in him?"  
  
_Everything._  
  
"A man worth saving."


	2. Smoke and Mirrors

**1924, London**  
  
" _Merde_ ," the familiar word escaped Rose Salvage's lips for the thousandth time that night as she cut a corner to one of the many elegant corridors of the Ritz Hotel in London. Her heart was pounding in her ears, and yet anyone that passed by her in the halls would not be able to tell the state of distress she was in. Commonly, it was as hard for other people to tell Rose's feelings as it was for her to actually feel them. She never let any trace of emotion betray her; people did that enough.  
  
Rose had entered the building with one mission, but on a rare turn of events, she had become its target. She had heard from her contacts that two German spies were staying on the Ritz for a couple of days, and if there was one thing Rose could not stand, it was Germans who had fought in the Great War against her country. So naturally, Rose was there to kill them, but now the one who had started the chase was the one being chased.  
  
Her decision of carrying out the mission on her own and not tell anyone about it was not proving to be helpful either, now that she could feel the steps of the Germans a few corridors away from hers. Someone in her contacts had betrayed her, and she didn't know who. Not only did the Germans know she was coming, they were waiting for her, and it was only by the skin of her teeth that she had escaped their first attempt to kill her. They would not fail a second time.  
  
Like any other person about to knock on Death's door, Rose was starting to reconsider her life choices. She wasn't afraid to die, and she didn't mind it either. But she was afraid of imagining her sisters having to go on without her. In a world full of reasons to die, her sisters were her one reason to live, and that outweighed anything else. There was nothing more important to her than her sisters' safety. She would live her whole life in danger if it meant they were safe.  
  
But if Rose died that night, her sisters would never be safe. Those German bastards wouldn't be satisfied with her and wouldn't rest until all her loved ones were dead too.  
  
As quickly and as quietly as she managed to move, Rose turned another corner, but both the stairs and the elevator were too far. The halls were empty except for her and them. In the dead of the night, she could imagine everyone inside the rooms was asleep.  
  
Rose had felt trapped many times in the past before, but never like this. There were too many people depending on her, and she could feel their lives on her shoulders more than her own. She didn't like it, but it was the price to pay in exchange for the loyalty and respect she had earned over the years.  
  
The Germans were close. Her heart was more alive than it had ever been. Rose didn't have time. She stopped in front of a door and knocked on it as silently as she dared.  
  
_Open up, open up, open up,_ she begged. _If you don't open this, I'm dead._  
  
For two excruciatingly slow seconds, no one did. Rose was going to die, leaving behind a legacy of bad words, broken bones, and more francs and pounds than places to keep them.  
  
Then the door opened, and Rose felt saved. For an instant only, until her eyes landed on the man in front of her and she was taken aback by torturous blue eyes and features as sharp as a knife. _Merde, merde, merde._ Out of all the rooms in the Ritz, of course Rose had to knock on Thomas Shelby's door; she had the annoying tendency to run into danger, not from it. She didn't even know he was there. She had studied the guests carefully, making sure no one of major importance or that might put her plan at risk was staying that night. But somehow Thomas Shelby had escaped her. Somehow, he always did.  
  
"Wrong room," he said impassively, staring at her through eyes as blue and tumultuous as a storm on the ocean. His stare was violent. Maybe the most violent thing about him.  
  
"Please, sir," she pleaded, allowing her voice to crack so that his guard would too, "I need your help. You have to let me in."  
  
Thomas raised his eyebrows but didn't move. His daunting posture screamed menace just as much as the Germans did. Rose could hear their footsteps getting closer, which meant he could too. They would be on that hall at any second. The room's door was just slightly opened, enough for a sliver of light to slide into the hall. She looked at the empty corridor, then at him again. He was staring at her still, unimpressed and aloof. This wasn't the kind of reaction Rose normally stirred on men, and for some reason, that irked her.  
  
"If you don't let me in, I'm pretty sure you'll be questioned tomorrow about a death on the Ritz," her voice was vehement now, without any hint of the fragility or weakness one would expect from someone in her situation. If the Brummie was impressed by the change, he didn't show it. He kept staring at her like she imagined a statue would. "Monsieur, please... they're Germans."  
  
His eyebrows rose slightly, but it was enough for Rose to realize she should have started with that. Thomas stepped aside and opened the door just wide enough to let her in, closing it quickly behind her. Then he moved to the candle he had burning on the bedside table and put the flame out with his fingers.  
  
They stood there in silence, in the dark, with each other's breaths as company as they heard the men outside passing by the room and walk away. Rose knew she should still be alert, that she wasn't safe, not when she was sharing a room with the leader of the most infamous gang from Birmingham. She knew who he was and what he did better than most people. She had studied every prominent crime figure in the region, and Thomas was at the top of that list. He was a dangerous man who did very bad things. Maybe she should feel fear, but she didn't. Because she was just as dangerous, and the things she did were just as bad.  
  
When the men's steps faded away, Thomas drew the window's curtain just enough to let a slice of moonlight enter the room. But the sky was pale in comparison to him. He had the moon in his eyes. The dark side of it.  
  
"Thank you," Rose broke the silence, unsure of what to do. She was in a situation she didn't know, with a man she couldn't control. She couldn't imagine a worst scenario. "For letting me in."  
  
Thomas didn't answer, instead sinking onto the bed and reaching for the cigarette case on the nightstand. He clicked it open and looked at the cigarettes. Then he decided against it and put it down.  
  
"They'll be coming back," she whispered, struggling to sustain his heavy stare on her. "They'll check every room once they realize I'm nowhere to be found."  
  
"Let 'em." He shrugged, voice hoarse and low.  
  
"You're not afraid they'll kill you just to get to me?"  
  
"Not more than you seem afraid they'll kill ya in the first place," he retorted. "In fact, you don't seem to be feeling any fear at all, do ya?"  
  
He wasn't just talking about the Germans, and she knew.  
  
"Well, should I?"  
  
"No," he answered, and there was a solemnity in his tone, a weight. Rose didn't believe him, but before she could answer, the sound of steps returned to the hall and three loud knocks were heard on the door next to theirs.  
  
Thomas got up in the blink of an eye, taking his finger to his lips and signaling for her to move to the bathroom. She did as he told her, but not before seeing him reach for a revolver. A single shiver ran down her spine, more from the intensity of that man than the threat of the other two.  
  
When the knocks reached their door, Rose shuddered. She had no guarantee Thomas wouldn't give her in. He had no duty towards her, and if there was one thing she knew about him, is that if he thought he could use her situation to his own benefit, he would. Rose didn't like being at the mercy of someone else. But she absolutely hated that that someone was him.  
  
"Excuse us, sir," one of the men said in a very subtle German accent once Thomas opened the door. "We apologize for waking you up so late in the night, but you see, a friend of ours had a little too much to drink this evening and never returned to her room. We're afraid she's most likely lost... you don't happen to have seen her around, do you?"  
  
"No. Didn't see any woman 'round 'ere except me wife, and that one, well, I wish I hadn't," he chuckled. The lie was effortless, and so believable it made Rose risk a peek at the bedroom.  
  
"Well, our friend... she can be very persuasive when she's in an altered state, we wouldn't blame you if you were trying to hide her from us. Not to disrespect your word, sir, but surely you wouldn't mind if we took a quick look?"  
  
"Not at all, I wouldn't, but me wife, ya see, she would. She's a bad sleeper, and she's got a bit of a temper. If she wakes up and sees I've let two strangers into our room... surely you gentlemen wouldn't want to be the reason of our divorce," his Birmingham accent was strong, but it was the way he lied that impressed her. Thomas Shelby knew how to lie. Even better than she did.  
  
There was a pause, one in which it felt like Rose's life was being weighed in the balances. She had started this night thinking she would take two lives and now she owed that man hers.  
  
"Of course, sir, we understand," the German ended up saying. "We won't bother you anymore then. Have a goodnight."  
  
Rose watched as Thomas closed the door. He stayed by it as he heard them walk down the hall and ask the other guests the same questions. It was only when he was sure that the Germans had left entirely that he placed the gun down, sat on the bed and reached for the cigarettes, this time taking one out.  
  
"It was risky of you, watching," he commented without looking at her. "Usually when someone doesn't want to be found, they stay hidden."  
  
She stood by the bathroom's door, observing him as he lit the cigarette with a match. He had chosen her over them and she didn't know how to feel about it.  
  
"Well, they didn't notice me, did they?" She asked, moving to rest her back on the wall opposite him. "I'm sure they were too distracted by your convincing performance, anyway."  
  
"For your sake, be glad they were," the smoke was lazily spreading around them like a veil of uncertainty. Rose was good at predicting. But this was a man who made his own rules instead of playing by hers, and she couldn't say she wasn't intrigued.  
  
"Thank you. You didn't have to help me and you did. Most people would have turned me in at the sight of such imposing men."  
  
Thomas stared at her again, cigarette forgotten between his index and middle finger. "Those men are not just German. They're German spies."  
  
"How do you know?"  
  
"I know everything that goes on at this hotel," he said simply, taking the cigarette to his lips, eyes never leaving hers. "Except who you are. Or why they were after you."  
  
"I'm a woman," she shrugged. "And I'm French. Isn't that reason enough?"  
  
He shook his head. "Not for me."  
  
She stood in silence as he studied her, trying to think of her next move. She couldn't let him know who she was. That would be another type of murder.  
  
"You see, I've been fooled before," he stated, gesturing towards her with his cigarette. "By a woman like you. So if I had to bet, I'd say there's a gun in that purse."  
  
"Then you'd lose," she replied, throwing her purse at him. I intended to kill those bastards in other ways. "See for yourself."  
  
"I'm a gentleman," he got up without inspecting the purse and returned it to her. She accepted it, and none of them moved; the air between them was too charged.  
  
"Any other place you'd like to search?" She defied, one eyebrow quirked.  
  
"I can't tell if that's an invitation or a threat."  
  
"It's a threat," she assured, and he snorted.  
  
"Is that a habit of yours, to threaten people who just saved your skin?"  
  
"No," she said, the side of her lips curling ever so slightly. "You're the first."  
  
"I see," he brought the cigarette to his mouth and took a long drag on it. His eyes hadn't moved from hers. Suddenly the smoke around them seemed to carry something more.  
  
"Sir, you saved my life tonight, and I'm very grateful for it. I'm in your debt. But it's late, and I should go."  
  
"If you leave now, there's no guarantee they won't find ya," he sat down on the bed again, his eyes so insisting on hers she had to fight the urge to look away. Or closer. "I'd say your best chance at getting out of this alive is staying 'ere. Or finding someone else who's willing to go against the Germans for you, and I'm sure that won't be difficult to do."  
  
Rose sighed. Apparently sarcasm was a language they were both natives in.  
  
"Why did you help me, after all? And chose to believe me instead of them?"  
  
"Like you said... they're German. Reason enough."  
  
There it was again, that depth in his tone. It made Rose sit down on the couch opposite of him.  
  
"You were in France?" She questioned. She didn't need to specify when. Since 1914, France was synonymous with war.  
  
"Yes. And some nights, like this one, I feel like I still am," he stubbed out the cigarette on the ashtray and raised his eyes to meet hers. "It doesn't help that a French woman being chased by Germans barged into me room in the middle of the night."  
  
He was pressing her to tell him the truth. Using her empathy so he could get what he wanted out of her. But he wasn't the only one who knew how to play that game.  
  
"I apologize for the intrusion and all the distress I've caused you, sir, I do," she bit her lip, looking down at her lap. "I... I was spending the night with this man, you see? The son of a friend of my father's. I thought because I knew him, it couldn't harm, could it? But he wasn't treating me very... nicely so I left the room, and that's when I overheard a conversation between the Germans, and it must have been a compromising one because they got very furious once they saw me. I tried convincing them I wasn't a threat, that I didn't even know German and hadn't understood a word of what they said, but they heard my French accent and went back into war mode, I suppose."  
  
"Hmm," he muttered, looking at her through narrowed eyes. Rose was a good liar. But this man was skeptical by nature.  
  
"You said you felt like you were still in France. So do I," she confided above a mere whisper. Talking about her country was painful to her, like opening up the stitches of a wound that refused to heal. "More than a country, France has become a feeling. One I wish I did not feel. So imagine how I felt when suddenly two German men were after me. I came to England to leave that feeling behind."  
  
This was the most truthful thing she had said all night, but Thomas didn't seem like he was going to believe it. Maybe she should have brought that gun with her after all.  
  
Then he spoke.  
  
"I'm sorry. For what they... what we did to your country."  
  
Rose raised her head and their eyes clashed. "I'm sorry too. For what my country did to you."  
  
"That's in the past."  
  
"Everything is," she was looking outside the window, to the quiet street below. When she glanced at him again, he was resting his head against the wall, looking at her, all angles and shadows and disconcerting eyes. God, he was handsome, and Rose knew those were the worse.  
  
"Your family," he said. "Did they come to England too?"  
  
"The ones who survived," she answered cryptically. He hadn't given up on finding out who she was, he was just using a different tactic. "If such term can be applied to people who endure war."  
They fell into silence, the kind of silence that said more than words could.  
  
"So are you staying?" He asked after a while. She risked a glance at him. His eyes were unrelenting, and Rose could feel the physical weight of them in hers. She needed a break. From this night, from the mission gone wrong, from him. Rose had no wish to enter another fight, and that was exactly what Thomas Shelby seemed to promise.  
  
"Well, you said it yourself, the boches will be waiting for me to come out of my hiding at any moment. My best chance is to leave in the morning, when most people will. But you should get some sleep, I've bothered you enough. I'll stay in the couch and leave before you wake up. You won't even notice I'm gone. It will be like I was never even here."  
  
Thomas shook his head again. There was something tragic and poetic when he did it. Like he was going against the whole world all alone.  
  
"Not possible, love. I've seen ya now. You can't ask me to forget."  
  
Her throat went dry. Among many things, she knew of Thomas' reputation with the ladies. More than that, she knew he was widowed, and most likely still grieving. She had no intention of interfering with that.  
  
"I take it you're not going to be sleeping, then?"  
  
"No."  
  
"Well, then what are we going to do? To pass the time?"  
  
He shrugged, tongue running over his bottom lip. "We could talk."  
  
"I don't think we have the same definition of talk, Mr. Shelby," She said, and for a split second she was able to see his surprise, raw and undisguised, until his face closed again and he slowly nodded.  
  
"So you know who I am. Do you know what I do?"  
  
"I know fortunes like yours aren't made with clean hands."  
  
"And you're still not afraid? To be here with me? Alone?" Rose hated it, but the way his accent accentuated some words captivated her. Damn her and her thing for the British.  
  
"I've survived a war," she said simply. "With all due respect, Mr. Shelby, but you don't pose much of a threat to someone who has survived a war. Especially not in those garments."  
  
She gestured at his white shirt and the suspenders hanging from his trousers, and against all odds, his lips stretched slightly, forming the smallest of smiles.  
  
"You know me name. I don't know yours."  
  
"Rose."  
  
"Rose," he tested it on his mouth, and it sounded good to her. Too good. "That's a pretty name."  
  
"Yes," she smiled and for a split second his expression sent her years back, to the soldiers she took care of in the war hospitals, at how they would stop whatever they were doing whenever she smiled. If it was a rare event then, it was in extinction now. "People tend to see the petals and forget about the thorns."  
  
"Oh, I see the thorns. But beautiful things aren't beautiful unless they cut."  
  
"Is that a compliment, Mr. Shelby?"  
  
"Yes, it's a compliment," his eyes locked with hers, his long lashes casting shadows on his cheekbones. Suddenly Rose felt in danger, not because her life was on the line, but because her emotions were. This was a terrible idea. One did not share a room with Thomas Shelby without losing something in return. "And my offer to talk still stands."  
  
"And so does my refusal," she countered. She could be crazy sometimes, but not even she was crazy enough to share the sheets with the devil. Rose only slept with men for information, so unless she desperately needed it from him, there was no way in hell she would ever lay down with Thomas Shelby.  
  
"I'm not a man people usually say no to."  
  
"And I'm not a woman who usually say yes. Goodnight, Mr. Shelby," she eyed the couch suspiciously, the nurse in her kicking in. "You didn't... have anyone here, did you?"  
  
"No. But if you don't believe me, you're welcome to sleep on the floor."  
  
"You’re a gentleman, you said?"  
  
His mouth lifted slightly at the corners. Maybe the biggest miracle of the night was seeing Thomas Shelby smile.  
  
"You can take the bed, if you want. No one was there either. I'll take the couch."  
  
"No, you've done enough for me," she said, closing her eyes. She wasn't counting on sleeping, not when his presence was so unnerving, but she couldn't keep talking either. That man had a way with words and Rose wouldn't fall victim to it. She had told him too much already. The last thing she wanted was the Peaky Blinder meddling in her business, though she was certain he would investigate her as soon as he could. She would have to lay low for a while.  
  
She heard him sigh and get up, and when she opened her eyes, he was holding out a blanket to her.  
  
"Take this, at least."  
  
For some reason, it felt to Rose he was giving her more than just a blanket.  
  
***

The next morning, when Thomas Shelby woke up, Rose Salvage was gone. If it wasn't for his heart beating faster than it should and the fragrance of roses that still lingered in the air, he could have thought it was just a dream.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love how these two never meet under normal circumstances ;) I wanted them to (re)meet in an original way so this is what I came up with! I hope you liked this chapter, please comment if you did <3

**Author's Note:**

> I'm new to AO3 so I apologize if there are any mistakes or inconsistencies. This work is also published on Wattpad under the username endIesstars. If you liked this chapter, please make sure to comment, it helps A LOT with motivation :)


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